


In Sleep, We Must Find Peace

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:25:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is months since the barricades of 1830 and Courfeyrac finds himself troubled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Courfeyrac woke up. He had forced himself to wake up, just as he had done so for the past weeks. He had dreamed it again – the black figure looming over him, the thick smoke from continuous gunfire, the glint of a knife, the sharp pain that exploded in his stomach. He had always known that it was only a dream, but that made it worse. There was something truly horrible about feeling your body tense, trying to speak, to make your jaw move, to scream and know that no sound is coming out. The first time that it had happened, he let out a cry and sat up from bed violently. The books on his bedside table clattered to the floor, but he did not care. His hands inspected his stomach, and having found only the scar to his injury, he relaxed. The next time it came, he opened his eyes and found himself drenched in sweat. No desperate cry, no upturned books. It did not bother him any less.

Two months since the barricades and he was still having nightmares.

Courfeyrac would have none of it. There were speeches to be made, contacts to be re-established, allies to be convinced. The revolution had been stolen from under them. France still had a king. He had no time for petty dreams. So he went about with as much verve as he could.

Combeferre had noticed it first. Whether it was the shadows under his eyes or how he muted when the subject turned to acquiring weapons, Courfeyrac wasn’t sure, but he always felt the silent exchange Enjolras and Combeferre would make over his head. At that point, he would endeavor to tell the most amusing story he had at hand – about the odd pair they saw at the Luxembourg, the newly opened saloon three blocks away, the abundance of ducks – anything that would erase the look of worry in their faces.

So it came as a complete surprise when one night, he opened his door to see Enjolras and Combeferre with piles of papers under their arms.

“There is a leaking tap in our rooms,“ Enjolras said without prelude, “and it was driving Combeferre mad.” Combeferre’s brows rose in amusement. “We were hoping to impose on your hospitality and finish our work here,” he said, “and quite possibly stay the night.”

Courfeyrac gladly let them in, not quite convinced with their story.

“When will your tap be repaired?”

“Tomorrow morning,” said one.

“And this leak is so distracting that you must seek refuge in my rooms?”

“Of course,” said the other.

Courfeyrac released a sigh and gave up. “I only have one bed.”

“We know.”

And so they ended up in a tangle of shoulders and limbs. Enjolras made himself comfortable at his right, and Combeferre at his left. Courfeyrac silently noted to himself that he really must procure another mattress, but for now he was thankful. He was not sure if the nightmare will come tomorrow, or the day after that, but he knows that it will not come tonight. He closed his eyes and took in all the warmth that he could. Sleep came, and there was peace.


	2. Verve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The amis wait for news from Hotel de Ville, but their minds are not far from the final fate of their fallen centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set two months before the first.

It was not supposed to be this way. Combeferre had gone through every possible pitfall that could occur when they went into battle, but the one at hand went beyond his imagination. He tried to remember. Courfeyrac had tipped his hat to them as he disappeared in the corner. He was going to acquire supplies from the small contingent that had set up in Les Halles. He was to stop by another barricade in hopes of news. He was to make his way back to their current holdings soon after. Set out, procure, return. It was a simple operation, meant to be quick and safe. But when Courfeyrac decided to use an obscure alleyway for further concealment, he was met by brigands robbing from the dead. Gunpowder was precious, even thieves knew that, so instead of his life, they took his preciously acquired bags and left him bleeding from his stomach. They had found him in time, intact but barely alive.

Combeferre pressed the wet cloth against his forehead. The fever had not abated.

"He doesn’t seem to have infection," Joly said, “else the fever would be worse." Combeferre nodded wordlessly. The strain of days without sleep was marked in his whole countenance. In his time at Necker, he had often seen women and children killed by society itself. In the battle, he had seen men killing fellow men. But nothing had filled him with more dread than seeing Courfeyrac’s limp form being carried towards them, his favorite waistcoat dark with fresh blood. Something in him had immediately clicked into place, and he had not left him since. Combeferre removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"Shall I take over for you?" Joly asked from somewhere beside him. Combeferre shook his head. “There is no need."

"But you haven’t slept in — "

"There is  _no need._ ”

"Jollly."

Enjolras had entered without a sound. “They have need of you outside."

Joly left the room mutedly, leaving Combeferre ashamed of his cutting behavior. Enjolras moved to his side, and together they gazed down at their fallen friend. Hands found each other and clasped tightly.

"Word from the Hotel?"

"None yet. Feuilly is on watch."

"The gunpowder?"

"Irretrievable."

"The bullets?"

"You must rest, my friend."

Combeferre let out a long sigh he did not know he held. He watched Enjolras bend over and tuck a few strands of Courfeyrac’s hair behind his ears. “Will he make it?"

Combeferre held Enjolras’s eyes and answered, “It is too early to tell."

Looking at him now, Combeferre realized what exactly had shifted inside him when he saw Courfeyrac as pale as a sheet. He had always thought that should Enjolras die, he would soon follow. It was a given fact, and he had accepted it long before. But in his nightly ponderings and calculations, he never accounted for the loss of Courfeyrac. It was illogical, but he thought that he would live forever. When he had first seen him, he thought him beautiful, not in an aesthetic way, but in the way that he radiated love, warmth, promise, and every word that could be found in the dictionary under the word life. Now, there was a high possibility that he would die, and the unnaturalness of it made him want to pull his hair out.

Enjolras put an arm around his shoulder. “He will live," he pronounced, as if it were written in stone.

"How can you tell?"

"Because he is in good hands," he assured him, “although those hands have not been in top form as of late."

Combeferre felt himself redden. It was a privilege Enjolras had over him and he exercised it for the sake of both his friends.

"Have faith, my friend. He would never let himself be taken by death unless it was in his own terms."

They were empty words, Combeferre knew, but he let himself be comforted either way. A thought formed, and his mouth curved into a weak smile.

"Do you think he is only stalling so he can wake up to a republic?"

Enjolras’s brows rose. “Quite possibly," he ventured, and he crossed his arms and looked at Courfeyrac in the same way his mother did when he missed holidays. “You’ve become selfish, young man, but if you must have your way, then be glad that you do not have to wait for the republic much longer."

This caused Combeferre to produce a chuckle that filled the vastness of the room. In a year or so, he knew that they would look back on this moment with fondness. On the bed, Combeferre could have sworn that Courfeyrac’s lips were smiling with them.


End file.
